This is a funny thing I forgot to, but must, mention. When I was in the STA Travel office in Delhi, I noticed a new slogan they're using on their posters:
"Better to die on your feet than live on your knees."
Other than being, in my opinion, a rather poor choice for a student travel company with nervous parents to placate (better to die..?), this is a famous Klingon proverb, so there's obviously a Star Trek geek in the upper echelons of the STA marketing department.
They would have been better advised to choose this quote of Kahless the Unforgettable: "To those who are overly cautious, everything is impossible."
Q'apla!
07 April 2008
Tour of Duty: Vietnam
This will be the first in a brief series of retrospective posts written to catch my readers up on the first half of my two-year sabbatical.
In mid-May, 2006, I arrived in Hanoi after a long flight from EWR via Kuala Lumpur. Malaysian Airlines lives up to its "5 star airline" self-promoting, too. Great service, great food, attractive flight attendants: just like in the advertisements. I had arranged for an airport pick-up--usually I do this at the beginning of a long trip to help ease me into the parallel universe I call Travel Land--and fortunately my driver was there, with sign, to whisk me away to my dormitory bed downtown, so cheap I don't even remember how much it cost.
Hanoi is wonderful. I could tell right away. Sure, every street is a river of motorbikes, but it's a tranquil river, nonetheless, and when you learn the secrets of its flow, crossing the street is not a problem. Central Hanoi is where most travelers hang out. French colonial structures in various conditions of disrepair lend this quarter a quasi-romantic atmosphere lacking in most jumbo Asian cities. Food is everywhere. Cheap, delicious food.
Vietnamese food is so good, describing it daunts my pathetic writing skills. In most places, you're served whatever dishes you order alongside a tray of various seasonings, sauces, pastes, and always a lime or two. It's up to you how salty, spicy, citrusy, or fishy you want to make your meal; clearly, the Vietnamese have finessed eating into an art. My habit was to ineptly dump on a little bit of everything. And the coffee! Well, I'd had Vietnamese coffee many times before visiting its motherland. But! I never had it cold, and that simple difference made all the difference. The fact that it cost, like, 5 cents instead of $3.00 also helped. They give you a glass of ice cubes with a little percolator thingy on top (I bought a percolator thingy as a souvenir, so everyone come to my house for Vietnamese coffee when I get back, please). From the percolator thingy, the coffee, uh, percolates into the glass, which also contains a thick layer of condensed milk (so obviously, this stuff can kill you). You then mix it up, drink, and enter your heavenly bliss. But there are some things on the menu I have to admit avoiding. Vietnamese people eat the following things which I do not eat: dogs, cats, snakes (the heart being especially prized, the blood drunk by couples on dates), chicken embryos, duck placentas, various insects, and, the most horrible of all, durian fruit, which smells like a rotting corpse from 100 feet away. Only the wonderful dragon fruit is capable of compensating for this bane of banes.
Hanoi is a nice place for a stroll. There are several lakes, one of them enormous, and there are pretty little temples everywhere. And ice cream. One of the premier attractions is the Temple of Literature. Of course, I made a beeline for that. I mean, what a novel idea! A Temple dedicated to my greatest love! I shouldn't have gotten too excited, though, because it was just a Confucian academy.
I only spent a few days in Hanoi before taking my first overnight sleeper train ever up to the hill station of Sapa. On the train, I met an enlightened backpacker from Canada who seemed like a nice guy. We were both in the market for a hill tribe trek, so we decided to do it together. Boy, did I get sick of him real fast! The hill tribe trek was good, though. What I wanted to see, I saw: gorgeously green terraced rice fields. We spent the night in a village near a waterfall, and I helped a bit with the rice replanting (tedious work--I can't believe these people spend their lives doing it). One old, bent, sun-wrinkled woman I saw working the fields turned out to be in her thirties. Yikes. On the way back to Sapa town, I took a dive and received my famous Vietnam injury. The exact cirumstances are embarrassing, so I'm going to skip them. Anyway, we rearrived with time to wander around town. Mr. Canada suggested we visit Ba Ca market the next day, which sounded good to me, but for that night, I wanted to avoid him, so I went to the bustling Catholic church. It was strange to see all the traditionally-garbed Montangards inside. These people are Catholic? What odd legacies of colonialism there be. Anyway, it turned out to be a wedding service. When the couple came in, they ended up standing only inches away from me. The groom even handed me (why me?) his camera to take their photo. I obliged. On the way back to my hotel, some cute Vietnamese girls, who the day before were tribally dressed for the tourists' benefit, asked me to take them to a bar to play pool, but I evaded their little trap.
The next day, I went to the market. What can I say? It was a market like any other in the developing world: noise, dirt, fruit, vegetables, cheap clothes, junky toys, miscellanious animal abuse, and loads of annoying souvenir hawkers. Haven't been to one? Go. They're all the same. As part of the market tour, we also got to visit the Vietnam-China border. As you know, I like border towns, so it was exciting for me to gaze across the river to the enormous, kanji-bespeckled Middle Kingdom that stretched, so I thought, into infinity. "Next year!" I shook my fist at China, "I'll be seeing you!"
Then, I went back to Hanoi. To be continued.
In mid-May, 2006, I arrived in Hanoi after a long flight from EWR via Kuala Lumpur. Malaysian Airlines lives up to its "5 star airline" self-promoting, too. Great service, great food, attractive flight attendants: just like in the advertisements. I had arranged for an airport pick-up--usually I do this at the beginning of a long trip to help ease me into the parallel universe I call Travel Land--and fortunately my driver was there, with sign, to whisk me away to my dormitory bed downtown, so cheap I don't even remember how much it cost.
Hanoi is wonderful. I could tell right away. Sure, every street is a river of motorbikes, but it's a tranquil river, nonetheless, and when you learn the secrets of its flow, crossing the street is not a problem. Central Hanoi is where most travelers hang out. French colonial structures in various conditions of disrepair lend this quarter a quasi-romantic atmosphere lacking in most jumbo Asian cities. Food is everywhere. Cheap, delicious food.
Vietnamese food is so good, describing it daunts my pathetic writing skills. In most places, you're served whatever dishes you order alongside a tray of various seasonings, sauces, pastes, and always a lime or two. It's up to you how salty, spicy, citrusy, or fishy you want to make your meal; clearly, the Vietnamese have finessed eating into an art. My habit was to ineptly dump on a little bit of everything. And the coffee! Well, I'd had Vietnamese coffee many times before visiting its motherland. But! I never had it cold, and that simple difference made all the difference. The fact that it cost, like, 5 cents instead of $3.00 also helped. They give you a glass of ice cubes with a little percolator thingy on top (I bought a percolator thingy as a souvenir, so everyone come to my house for Vietnamese coffee when I get back, please). From the percolator thingy, the coffee, uh, percolates into the glass, which also contains a thick layer of condensed milk (so obviously, this stuff can kill you). You then mix it up, drink, and enter your heavenly bliss. But there are some things on the menu I have to admit avoiding. Vietnamese people eat the following things which I do not eat: dogs, cats, snakes (the heart being especially prized, the blood drunk by couples on dates), chicken embryos, duck placentas, various insects, and, the most horrible of all, durian fruit, which smells like a rotting corpse from 100 feet away. Only the wonderful dragon fruit is capable of compensating for this bane of banes.
Hanoi is a nice place for a stroll. There are several lakes, one of them enormous, and there are pretty little temples everywhere. And ice cream. One of the premier attractions is the Temple of Literature. Of course, I made a beeline for that. I mean, what a novel idea! A Temple dedicated to my greatest love! I shouldn't have gotten too excited, though, because it was just a Confucian academy.
I only spent a few days in Hanoi before taking my first overnight sleeper train ever up to the hill station of Sapa. On the train, I met an enlightened backpacker from Canada who seemed like a nice guy. We were both in the market for a hill tribe trek, so we decided to do it together. Boy, did I get sick of him real fast! The hill tribe trek was good, though. What I wanted to see, I saw: gorgeously green terraced rice fields. We spent the night in a village near a waterfall, and I helped a bit with the rice replanting (tedious work--I can't believe these people spend their lives doing it). One old, bent, sun-wrinkled woman I saw working the fields turned out to be in her thirties. Yikes. On the way back to Sapa town, I took a dive and received my famous Vietnam injury. The exact cirumstances are embarrassing, so I'm going to skip them. Anyway, we rearrived with time to wander around town. Mr. Canada suggested we visit Ba Ca market the next day, which sounded good to me, but for that night, I wanted to avoid him, so I went to the bustling Catholic church. It was strange to see all the traditionally-garbed Montangards inside. These people are Catholic? What odd legacies of colonialism there be. Anyway, it turned out to be a wedding service. When the couple came in, they ended up standing only inches away from me. The groom even handed me (why me?) his camera to take their photo. I obliged. On the way back to my hotel, some cute Vietnamese girls, who the day before were tribally dressed for the tourists' benefit, asked me to take them to a bar to play pool, but I evaded their little trap.
The next day, I went to the market. What can I say? It was a market like any other in the developing world: noise, dirt, fruit, vegetables, cheap clothes, junky toys, miscellanious animal abuse, and loads of annoying souvenir hawkers. Haven't been to one? Go. They're all the same. As part of the market tour, we also got to visit the Vietnam-China border. As you know, I like border towns, so it was exciting for me to gaze across the river to the enormous, kanji-bespeckled Middle Kingdom that stretched, so I thought, into infinity. "Next year!" I shook my fist at China, "I'll be seeing you!"
Then, I went back to Hanoi. To be continued.
Daily Life in Rishikesh
I have already delineated a program for myself. From 8:00 am - 9:30 am at Omkarananda Ashram, where I am now staying, I have an easy class of Hatha yoga with Murti. For the rest of the day, nothing, or maybe I will try to tolerate my way through a spiritual teaching here and there. At 6:00 pm, I have Ashtanga yoga with the delightfully effeminate Kaman. That runs for more than two hours and is really intense. I've never done Ashtanga before, so it was fast and confusing, but I caught on quickly enough. I even did the headstand posture for the first time. That's my schedule. I may otherwise try to fit in some Ganges rafting or a Reiki class. Life is good here. And cheap. Cheap is a synonym for good.
06 April 2008
Escape from New Delhi, Part Two
日本人、思い出す思ってないでください。土曜日にカナダ人を会った。話していると日本で住んでいったと習った。すごいな！いつも僕は日本ために懐かしい気持ちしている。日本料理などが大ほしいです。愛する。ところで。。。
I think I paid for my scams, friends. Karmically. You see, every bus ride in [the world?] has the potential to become the Bus Ride from Hell, and I think I was scammed myself when I was overbooked onto the overnight hippie bus from Delhi to Rishikesh. I met a nice Canadian girl who lived in Japan for the last three years, so we had lots to chat about. Unfortunately, we were among the last to board the bus. So she got a broken seat, and I got... no seat! Instead, they put me into the driver's cabin up front, on a bench, where, typically, they later squeezed in eight more Indians. I expressed my dismay to the bus attendant, to the effect that I paid for a seat and would find it difficult to sleep sitting upright with no leg room on a "bench" to which he replied--"Sleep OK! No problem!" You will not be surprised by now when I tell you, my friends, that I wanted to kill this man.
To be honest, I didn't suffer too badly. I think that bus ride in Nepal steeled me for anything. I was able to switch eventually to the also broken seat next to the Canadian girl, but that one was on a tilt, so it kept tipping me into her whenever there was a bump, and I don't think she appreciated that. Finally, the extended family in the back cleared out and I actually had a place to lay down. Forty-five minutes later, we arrived in Rishikesh. I had the foresight to call ahead to an ashram for accommodation, but it turned out to be full until Tuesday. The manager/yoga teacher invited me to sleep, as a stopgap measure, on a wooden platform inside the giant yoga room or on a bed squeezed into the dirty, narrow kitchen. I picked the kitchen but then later found a hotel and splurged for a $2.50 room with private bath. I am so spoiled sometimes.
I met Sahara, the dude from New Jersey who taught one of my yoga classes at Rutgers and who's served as my contact in Rishikesh since I've been in India. Really nice guy! He might introduce me to his spiritual teacher, ShantiMayi, a Vedic saint, and possibly a nearly 100 year-old yoga teacher. He also told Canadian Stacie and I where to go for illegal beer. Which we did. This morning, slightly hungover, I had my first yoga class at Omkarananda Ashram. Hatha style, so I was familiar with the asanas. Good stuff.
I may not have much to write about for the next two weeks, while I'm just hanging around Rishikesh doing yoga. I'll try to come up with some lies to tell or possibly do retrospective posts on my excursion to Southeast Asia, May-July 2006 and my year in Japan immediately following. How does that sound, readers?
I think I paid for my scams, friends. Karmically. You see, every bus ride in [the world?] has the potential to become the Bus Ride from Hell, and I think I was scammed myself when I was overbooked onto the overnight hippie bus from Delhi to Rishikesh. I met a nice Canadian girl who lived in Japan for the last three years, so we had lots to chat about. Unfortunately, we were among the last to board the bus. So she got a broken seat, and I got... no seat! Instead, they put me into the driver's cabin up front, on a bench, where, typically, they later squeezed in eight more Indians. I expressed my dismay to the bus attendant, to the effect that I paid for a seat and would find it difficult to sleep sitting upright with no leg room on a "bench" to which he replied--"Sleep OK! No problem!" You will not be surprised by now when I tell you, my friends, that I wanted to kill this man.
To be honest, I didn't suffer too badly. I think that bus ride in Nepal steeled me for anything. I was able to switch eventually to the also broken seat next to the Canadian girl, but that one was on a tilt, so it kept tipping me into her whenever there was a bump, and I don't think she appreciated that. Finally, the extended family in the back cleared out and I actually had a place to lay down. Forty-five minutes later, we arrived in Rishikesh. I had the foresight to call ahead to an ashram for accommodation, but it turned out to be full until Tuesday. The manager/yoga teacher invited me to sleep, as a stopgap measure, on a wooden platform inside the giant yoga room or on a bed squeezed into the dirty, narrow kitchen. I picked the kitchen but then later found a hotel and splurged for a $2.50 room with private bath. I am so spoiled sometimes.
I met Sahara, the dude from New Jersey who taught one of my yoga classes at Rutgers and who's served as my contact in Rishikesh since I've been in India. Really nice guy! He might introduce me to his spiritual teacher, ShantiMayi, a Vedic saint, and possibly a nearly 100 year-old yoga teacher. He also told Canadian Stacie and I where to go for illegal beer. Which we did. This morning, slightly hungover, I had my first yoga class at Omkarananda Ashram. Hatha style, so I was familiar with the asanas. Good stuff.
I may not have much to write about for the next two weeks, while I'm just hanging around Rishikesh doing yoga. I'll try to come up with some lies to tell or possibly do retrospective posts on my excursion to Southeast Asia, May-July 2006 and my year in Japan immediately following. How does that sound, readers?
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05 April 2008
Escape from New Delhi
Well, friends. I've finally made it out of not-so-bad-actually-quite-cool-but-I-still-didn't-want-to-spend-nine-days-there Delhi. Let's turn back the clock, though, so I can tell you chronologically what I've been up to.
Each morning for the last week, basically, I went to STA Travel only to be denied an ISIC card for lack of proper proof that I'm a student. Am I actually a student? I'm not sure. But Rutgers is willing to admit that I am (after charging me $2000), so that's good enough for me. I had to drink lots of coffee to keep myself in a good mood, because each denial, deferral, and delay meant I had to spend another day in the city. OK, no problem! as the Indians are constantly telling me. I have consistently managed to find something worthwhile to do.
One day, the same day I went to the Syrian embassy and learned that a visa costs Americans a whopping $250, I also visited a friend of a colleague from Rutgers, and a Rutgers Ph.D. herself, Giti. I had to hire a taxi for the day to do this, since she lives in one of Delhi's outlying satellite communities (which are divided, futuristically, into "sectors" and usually called, somewhat ironically, "colonies"). We chatted nostalgically and literarily for awhile over tea. How civilized!
The next day, after STA denied me again, I was so depressed I had my nails done and then wandered around unenthusiastically. I practically lived in Barista and Cafe Coffee Day this week.
Remembering that another colleague had given me another contact, I arranged to meet this contact, a young Sociology student nicknamed Shubho, at Delhi University. There, I strolled with him around the very nice campus environs, which included passing by the former garden of the Lord-Governor, where Mountbatten romanced Edwina, I am told. How civilized!
The next day, STA turned down my request for an international student ID, and I was thinking about plotting revenge, when I realized I hadn't yet visited the Baha'i prayer hall, which looks like the Sydney Opera House but shaped like a lotus flower about to blossom instead of whatever the hell the Sydney Opera House is supposed to be (sails? a jack-knifed palm tree?). Upon exodusing, I was assaulted by the usual motley of rickshaw drivers. I asked how much to Humayan's Tomb.
Rickshaw-wallah: 100 Rs.
I: 30 Rs.
R-w: OK, but we stop at one shop.
I: If we're stopping at one shop, then you take me for free to Humayun's Tomb and then to the Museum of Modern Art after that.
R-w: Ok, but then we stop two shops.
I: Fine.
...we depart and time passes...
R-w: If you visit one more shop, I take you back to Connaught Place.
I: Ok, but you also pay me 50 Rs.
R-w: Ok, but you visit two shops.
I: Two shops? Then you pay me 100 Rs.
R-w: No, 50 Rs.
I: Ok, I take metro.
R-w: Ok, 100 Rs.
...time passes, I visit museum, see nice photography exhibit, etc., it inexplicably rains, we visit more shops, I buy nothing, we head to Connaught Place...
I: How many shops do you know?
R-w: About 15.
I: Ok, tomorrow, you meet me my hotel 10:30, you take me to shops, we split everything.
R-w: Ok!
I: How much can I make?
R-w: I think you can earn 500 Rs.
I: Sweet.
You see, my friends, I have figured out India: this is a country full of scams. Everyone seems to have one, or more, running at the same time. As a tourist, I am subject to the minor ones, really. Regular Indian people have to deal with corrupt police, venal officials, pushy and deceptive salespeople, incompetent or unreliable employees, two-faced holy men, price-gouging for everything from bananas to real estate, and, at a higher level, more sublime scams like the Delhi metro, the Commonwealth Games, and The World is Flat. It's like a web of scams at the civilization level. You can complain about this, but complaints aren't going to dislodge the combined scamming of a billion people. The only way to survive is join in the scamming yourself.
So I was quite happy to be carted from shop to shop all day, getting a free guided tour of Delhi in the process, honing my haggling skills, and comparing prices for things I had no intention of buying--each shop paying my rickshaw driver 100 Rs. as part of a scam to lure in tourists to buy handicrafts and carpets at marked-up prices, and my rickshaw driver paying me as part of our scam against them (and mine against him--finally I get the upper hand with the rickshaw-wallahs!). Actually, I can recommend this scam as a great way to see Delhi for free and without having to deal constantly with transport issues. They will be happy to take you to all the sights, since that's where the souvenir shops are located, too. Of course you can buy things if you want--some of the things they sell are genuinely fine--but make sure you arrange to split the 5% commission your rickshaw-wallah receives on any expensive items. The salespeople at these shops tend to be very pushy (one told me straightaway when I told him to stop following me, "OK, but you should buy something"), but it's a good test of patience and resilience. Also, it's fun to listen to the smooth-talking carpet salesmen (and these guys deserve their legendary status) discuss the history and merits of their carpets at great length over tea. I even learned enough about them to start demanding the giant 9x6, 426 knot, naturally dyed yak wool on cotton pieces from Kashmir. After visiting a number of shops, mulling over my options, and negotiating hard for a good deal, I finally settled on a crimson yak carpet with an ornate tree of life design in the center for $1600, tax and tariff free, inclusive of door-to-door overseas delivery. Satisfied with both selection and price, I bought the carpet (in my imagination) and thanked the salesman for his time.
And, I forgot to mention, in the morning my ISIC scam finally came to fruition, as well. After the English graduate secretary emailed STA Travel for the third time with a letter alleging my studentness, they finally believed me (it's true, right?) and issued me the coveted, blue discount card. Then, I was finally free to leave the city, about which I will write more, presently.
The rest of this post was lost in an Internet service interruption. I will reproduce it at another time.
Each morning for the last week, basically, I went to STA Travel only to be denied an ISIC card for lack of proper proof that I'm a student. Am I actually a student? I'm not sure. But Rutgers is willing to admit that I am (after charging me $2000), so that's good enough for me. I had to drink lots of coffee to keep myself in a good mood, because each denial, deferral, and delay meant I had to spend another day in the city. OK, no problem! as the Indians are constantly telling me. I have consistently managed to find something worthwhile to do.
One day, the same day I went to the Syrian embassy and learned that a visa costs Americans a whopping $250, I also visited a friend of a colleague from Rutgers, and a Rutgers Ph.D. herself, Giti. I had to hire a taxi for the day to do this, since she lives in one of Delhi's outlying satellite communities (which are divided, futuristically, into "sectors" and usually called, somewhat ironically, "colonies"). We chatted nostalgically and literarily for awhile over tea. How civilized!
The next day, after STA denied me again, I was so depressed I had my nails done and then wandered around unenthusiastically. I practically lived in Barista and Cafe Coffee Day this week.
Remembering that another colleague had given me another contact, I arranged to meet this contact, a young Sociology student nicknamed Shubho, at Delhi University. There, I strolled with him around the very nice campus environs, which included passing by the former garden of the Lord-Governor, where Mountbatten romanced Edwina, I am told. How civilized!
The next day, STA turned down my request for an international student ID, and I was thinking about plotting revenge, when I realized I hadn't yet visited the Baha'i prayer hall, which looks like the Sydney Opera House but shaped like a lotus flower about to blossom instead of whatever the hell the Sydney Opera House is supposed to be (sails? a jack-knifed palm tree?). Upon exodusing, I was assaulted by the usual motley of rickshaw drivers. I asked how much to Humayan's Tomb.
Rickshaw-wallah: 100 Rs.
I: 30 Rs.
R-w: OK, but we stop at one shop.
I: If we're stopping at one shop, then you take me for free to Humayun's Tomb and then to the Museum of Modern Art after that.
R-w: Ok, but then we stop two shops.
I: Fine.
...we depart and time passes...
R-w: If you visit one more shop, I take you back to Connaught Place.
I: Ok, but you also pay me 50 Rs.
R-w: Ok, but you visit two shops.
I: Two shops? Then you pay me 100 Rs.
R-w: No, 50 Rs.
I: Ok, I take metro.
R-w: Ok, 100 Rs.
...time passes, I visit museum, see nice photography exhibit, etc., it inexplicably rains, we visit more shops, I buy nothing, we head to Connaught Place...
I: How many shops do you know?
R-w: About 15.
I: Ok, tomorrow, you meet me my hotel 10:30, you take me to shops, we split everything.
R-w: Ok!
I: How much can I make?
R-w: I think you can earn 500 Rs.
I: Sweet.
You see, my friends, I have figured out India: this is a country full of scams. Everyone seems to have one, or more, running at the same time. As a tourist, I am subject to the minor ones, really. Regular Indian people have to deal with corrupt police, venal officials, pushy and deceptive salespeople, incompetent or unreliable employees, two-faced holy men, price-gouging for everything from bananas to real estate, and, at a higher level, more sublime scams like the Delhi metro, the Commonwealth Games, and The World is Flat. It's like a web of scams at the civilization level. You can complain about this, but complaints aren't going to dislodge the combined scamming of a billion people. The only way to survive is join in the scamming yourself.
So I was quite happy to be carted from shop to shop all day, getting a free guided tour of Delhi in the process, honing my haggling skills, and comparing prices for things I had no intention of buying--each shop paying my rickshaw driver 100 Rs. as part of a scam to lure in tourists to buy handicrafts and carpets at marked-up prices, and my rickshaw driver paying me as part of our scam against them (and mine against him--finally I get the upper hand with the rickshaw-wallahs!). Actually, I can recommend this scam as a great way to see Delhi for free and without having to deal constantly with transport issues. They will be happy to take you to all the sights, since that's where the souvenir shops are located, too. Of course you can buy things if you want--some of the things they sell are genuinely fine--but make sure you arrange to split the 5% commission your rickshaw-wallah receives on any expensive items. The salespeople at these shops tend to be very pushy (one told me straightaway when I told him to stop following me, "OK, but you should buy something"), but it's a good test of patience and resilience. Also, it's fun to listen to the smooth-talking carpet salesmen (and these guys deserve their legendary status) discuss the history and merits of their carpets at great length over tea. I even learned enough about them to start demanding the giant 9x6, 426 knot, naturally dyed yak wool on cotton pieces from Kashmir. After visiting a number of shops, mulling over my options, and negotiating hard for a good deal, I finally settled on a crimson yak carpet with an ornate tree of life design in the center for $1600, tax and tariff free, inclusive of door-to-door overseas delivery. Satisfied with both selection and price, I bought the carpet (in my imagination) and thanked the salesman for his time.
And, I forgot to mention, in the morning my ISIC scam finally came to fruition, as well. After the English graduate secretary emailed STA Travel for the third time with a letter alleging my studentness, they finally believed me (it's true, right?) and issued me the coveted, blue discount card. Then, I was finally free to leave the city, about which I will write more, presently.
The rest of this post was lost in an Internet service interruption. I will reproduce it at another time.
02 April 2008
Sorry, sir!
1. I can't get a Syrian visa from the Syrian embassy in Delhi, because I'm American. So my application has to receive special clearance from Damascus. This may take anywhere between one day and never. Sorry, sir!
2. If I am granted a visa, also since I am American, I can only get a single entry, contrary to what I've heard elsewhere, which means I cannot visit Lebanon and then return to Syria to go on to Turkey. I would have to fly to Beirut and its semi-functioning airport and then enter Syria from Lebanon, assuming the border is open. Or skip Lebanon. Sorry, sir!
3. If I am granted a visa, also since I am American, I have to pay a fee of $100 PLUS 6000 Rs. ($150), which seems like an insane amount of money, reciprocity or no, since the visa is only good for two weeks. Sorry, sir!
4. I cannot book a flight to either country until I get the Syrian visa.
5. There are some special discount fares available to both Beirut and Damascus for exactly the day I'd like to leave India, but they are student fares, so I need a valid student ID to book them. Sorry, sir!
6. My international student ID expired on March 31, 2008. STA Travel in Delhi refuses to renew it, book my flights, or be at all flexible or helpful in any way. One more time: my ISIC card expired THREE DAYS AGO. Sorry, sir!
7. I contacted Rutgers, hoping I could get a letter or something emailed to STA Travel, which said an email would do. The Graduate English secretary kindly sent them such an email after I paid Rutgers a $2000 re-registration fee ("I" meaning concerned interests on my behalf).
8. STA Travel now insists that an email will not do. I need a scanned image of a signed and stamped letter (stamped!? is this "Brazil"?). I pleaded to no avail. Friends, all I want is avail. I used to live near Avail! But now avail is lost to me. Sorry, sir!
9. I asked STA Travel if I could book my flight over the phone, because I have no other reason to stay in Delhi, except to wait for my Syrian visa, which I can collect anytime once my application is approved. They said, "No." They cannot take credit card numbers over the phone. Email? No. They have to swipe my card in person. I have to admire their security precautions, though, this being India (apologies, friends), I am quite surprised by them. They even seem unbribable. Sorry, sir! They said I could leave cash with them and, if I ended up not booking a flight, they would refund it to me. I looked at them askance.
10. I cannot book a flight until I get a Syrian visa. STA will not let me book a special discount flight until I have an ISIC card. I can't get an ISIC card until Rutgers sends documentation to STA that STA finds acceptable. I can't book the special discount flights outside of Delhi, therefore, I cannot leave Delhi until I book a flight. I am stuck in Delhi.
Postscript: I hope everyone who read yesterday's post noticed the date. Seems half and half from the reactions I've been getting.
2. If I am granted a visa, also since I am American, I can only get a single entry, contrary to what I've heard elsewhere, which means I cannot visit Lebanon and then return to Syria to go on to Turkey. I would have to fly to Beirut and its semi-functioning airport and then enter Syria from Lebanon, assuming the border is open. Or skip Lebanon. Sorry, sir!
3. If I am granted a visa, also since I am American, I have to pay a fee of $100 PLUS 6000 Rs. ($150), which seems like an insane amount of money, reciprocity or no, since the visa is only good for two weeks. Sorry, sir!
4. I cannot book a flight to either country until I get the Syrian visa.
5. There are some special discount fares available to both Beirut and Damascus for exactly the day I'd like to leave India, but they are student fares, so I need a valid student ID to book them. Sorry, sir!
6. My international student ID expired on March 31, 2008. STA Travel in Delhi refuses to renew it, book my flights, or be at all flexible or helpful in any way. One more time: my ISIC card expired THREE DAYS AGO. Sorry, sir!
7. I contacted Rutgers, hoping I could get a letter or something emailed to STA Travel, which said an email would do. The Graduate English secretary kindly sent them such an email after I paid Rutgers a $2000 re-registration fee ("I" meaning concerned interests on my behalf).
8. STA Travel now insists that an email will not do. I need a scanned image of a signed and stamped letter (stamped!? is this "Brazil"?). I pleaded to no avail. Friends, all I want is avail. I used to live near Avail! But now avail is lost to me. Sorry, sir!
9. I asked STA Travel if I could book my flight over the phone, because I have no other reason to stay in Delhi, except to wait for my Syrian visa, which I can collect anytime once my application is approved. They said, "No." They cannot take credit card numbers over the phone. Email? No. They have to swipe my card in person. I have to admire their security precautions, though, this being India (apologies, friends), I am quite surprised by them. They even seem unbribable. Sorry, sir! They said I could leave cash with them and, if I ended up not booking a flight, they would refund it to me. I looked at them askance.
10. I cannot book a flight until I get a Syrian visa. STA will not let me book a special discount flight until I have an ISIC card. I can't get an ISIC card until Rutgers sends documentation to STA that STA finds acceptable. I can't book the special discount flights outside of Delhi, therefore, I cannot leave Delhi until I book a flight. I am stuck in Delhi.
Postscript: I hope everyone who read yesterday's post noticed the date. Seems half and half from the reactions I've been getting.
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